A Book of Spirits and Thieves

“How many are in your circle?” he asked.

“It would be six, including you. They become my eyes and ears in the world beyond these walls. I need those I trust without question to assist me.”

“Are there always six?”

“Now, yes,” Markus said. “At one time, years ago, there were eight, but two chose to leave the society and return to their regular lives. I require quite a lot of dedication from society members, and even more from those in my circle of trust, but neither needs to be a lifelong commitment, unless one chooses it to be so. One can always leave if they wish.”

Farrell considered this. It was a strange relief, knowing that the commitment to the society wasn’t forever if one chose a different path. “So you trusted my brother.”

Another nod. “I did.”

His heart ached at remembering Connor, at walking in his older brother’s footsteps. “How long was he part of your circle?”

“Only a few months, I’m afraid.”

Farrell cast away the memory of his brother’s bedsheets, covered in blood from the cuts on his wrists. “And what does your trusted circle do for you that the other society members do not?”

Markus folded his hands on the desktop. “Their most important task is to search the city for specific criminals to be tried at our meetings. These searches can sometimes take quite a while, as the evil ones among us prefer to hide in the shadows, away from the glare of judgment.” Markus paused, as if giving Farrell time to consider the gravity of what he’d just said. “And of course my circle also completes various other tasks and errands for me when required.”

He didn’t go into further detail, but Farrell got the impression that he shouldn’t ask any more questions, and that he’d learned enough for today. If he were to join the circle, he’d need to capture criminals and bring them to the theater, knowing fully that he’d be leading them to their deaths. He would be responsible for claiming lives so that the society could grow stronger in their efforts to watch over the city—the world—to keep it safe from evil.

At the thought, he felt a rush of power similar to what he felt every time Markus spilled blood on the stage.

“Are you really a god of death like they say you are?” Farrell asked under his breath before he realized what he’d said. He half hoped that Markus didn’t hear him.

“I am,” Markus replied plainly and without hesitation.

Farrell’s eyes snapped to his. He hadn’t expected an answer from the mysterious man, let alone a perfectly clear and simple one, but there it was: confirmation that Markus was so much more than a secret society leader with a few magic tricks up his sleeves.

“Knowing this to be true, will you accept your position as a trusted member of my circle?” Markus asked. “And will you pledge to do whatever I ask of you, whenever I ask it?”

“I will.” The words left his mouth before he realized it, an echo of his original commitment to the society.

“Good. Your agreement means that you will also accept a generous gift from me, one that will aid you in your service.”

Then Markus fell silent for a full minute, watching Farrell with dark eyes.

Finally, he rose to his feet. He pulled his infamous golden dagger from a hinged mahogany box on his desk, its lid ornately carved with the Hawkspear emblem set against a backdrop of mountains, and inlaid with gold. “Give me your arm.”

Was he about to give Farrell a second mark? Is that what Lucas had meant during that whole tattoo discussion?

The first mark had gifted Farrell with perfect health—he hadn’t been sick a single day in the last three years (though, unfortunately, Markus didn’t seem to have any power over hangovers).

What gift would this second mark bring?

He wanted to ask but knew this was not the time. Instead, he unbuttoned and rolled back the sleeve of his shirt, then offered his left arm to Markus.

Don’t flinch, he reminded himself.

Markus grasped his wrist, then cut deeply into Farrell’s forearm, guiding the tip of the dagger along his flesh. Farrell gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to react to the pain as he watched the blood flow from the wound, drip to the floor, and flow over the symbol that Markus etched into his skin.

When it was done, Markus placed the dagger on his desk and pressed his bare hand against Farrell’s arm. A healing white light began to emanate from the wound, and Farrell felt a burning sensation—horribly painful, nearly as much as the cutting itself had been.

Moments later, Markus drew back from him. The wound had healed, and Farrell’s skin was unmarked.

“Do you feel it?” Markus asked.

“Feel—?” Farrell started to ask but then closed his mouth.

He felt it.